


Keeping Warm

by Siriusfanatic



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, holiday theme, one-night stand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:45:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriusfanatic/pseuds/Siriusfanatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint finds himself stopped over in New Orleans on Christmas, feeling low and forgotten. He decides to make the best of things, and meets an unexpected prospect in the form of certain Cajun with similar woes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Quick little drabble I wrote for the holidays with a random Marvel rare pair involving my two favorite heroes in purple. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> *I ship Remy LeBeau with freaking EVERYONE. I regret nothing.

 

_New Orleans,_

_Christmas Eve_

He still wasn’t sure how exactly he had ended up _here._

                Far from home. (Not that it was unusual.)

                Far from his friends. (Who wouldn’t even notice. Probably.)

                Far from…

                Clint glanced around at the crowded bar he found himself sitting in. It wasn’t one of the city’s upscale joints, the kind live bands and classy menus and a dress code. It was definitely one of the, uh, _dive_ bars of the town. The hole in the wall sort of place where you came to drown your troubles in cheap beer and deep fried food. The kind of place where you were annoynomous, everyone liked it that way.

                He was still sporting the bruises and bandages from his last “job.” Which made him stick out like a sore thumb. That pale, blonde haired white guy with his face all scratched and bruised, nursing his third watered down beer and a large plate of loaded fries.

                He kept checking his phone, hovering over the contact list. Kate wasn’t talking to him right now. Or rather, she was but she was pretending she wasn’t to prove a point. She was also spending her holiday with her girlfriend, and Clint didn’t want to bother her. He didn’t want to be that creepy guy. Kate was ten years younger than him. As much as he valued her friendship (and hell, her partnership), he needed to get his own damn life and stay out of hers for awhile. Or at least that was what she had told him a week ago, before she slammed the door of his apartment in his face.

                There was Natasha…

                No. That was a bad idea all around.

                Nat didn’t need to see him like this, although he knew she would probably understand. It was far more a matter of pride. Best attempt that when he was feeling a bit more steady…and had showered a bit more recently. He smelled like sweat and blood and rubbing alcohol. Not sexy.

                He ate another mouthful of fries, feeling the spice of seafood and the cheese and the peppers that were smothered on top of them burn faintly against his dulled taste buds. God damn. These people must all have cast iron stomachs to deal with this kind of cuisine on a regular basis. Still, the kick was nice, especially in his semi-drunk state.

                He gazed around the hazy yellowed atmosphere of the bar. All the lights were kept down pretty low, allowing all the Christmas lights that were strung across the bar back and over archways, even hanging in large arcs across the room to twinkle a bit more brilliantly.

                The song on the radio changed, and suddenly Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” drifted across the din of the barroom and Clint frowned into his beer. Christmas songs were always either aggressively joyful or depressing as hell. There was no in between.

                He glanced at his phone again. He hadn’t had a call in three days. Not from anyone.

                What a bunch of asshole friends he had.

                They were probably up at Stark Tower, having the time of their lives, content to forget that he was supposed to be one of them. He was a god damn card carrying member in fact.

                His eyes hovered over Tony’s number.

                Last time he had gotten really depressed, Tony had told him to call him. Tony knew a few things about what it was like to suddenly sink into the black hole of your mind, and how hard it was to reach out.

                Tony was a good friend.

                He just got…distracted easily.

                Clint turned off his phone and shoved it in his pocket, doing his best not to pout. He didn’t want to bother anyone. He just wanted to wallow for a little while and be pathetic without an audience. He was entitled to that much.

                Still…he didn’t really want to be alone. Not as completely as he was. It wasn’t good for him. He knew he would just keep drinking until he passed out somewhere. And should his current headache/pseudo supervillain gang actually catch up with him here…well it could be bad news.

                He glanced around the bar again. Maybe, just for tonight, he could just be Clint. Not Hawkeye. Just _Clint._ No one expected a whole lot out of _Clint._ And when people underestimated him…well, that was when he did his best work.

                He stood up, abandoning his coat on his chair to keep someone from stealing the table (and his food) and moseyed his way over to the bar. There were a few girls there, in short skirts and sequined tops, laughing and giggling together.

                Nope. Way out of his league.

                There was another woman, a little further down the bar, sitting alone and stirring her drink. Clint smiled at her and she promptly gave him the stink eye, then the bird, and slid off her stool, disappearing elsewhere.

                “Yep. That’s about right.” He sighed to himself, flopping down on an empty stool next to a man, who had been drinking quietly.

                “What’s dat, mon ami?”

                Despite having been in New Orleans for the last two days, the accents still threw him now and again, especially this one, which was not so much southern but Cajun.

                The man next to him had a head of shaggy, rusty brown hair, and warm tan skin, and faintly reddish stubble that lined his chin and cut lightly around his mouth. He wore dark purple sweater and old jeans and sneakers. Clint did a quick double take at him, leaning a bit closer to see if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

                The man had black and red eyes.

                The man smiled at him slowly and he realized he had been staring at him for more than eight seconds without saying a single word. “What’s de matter? Cat got your tongue?” the Cajun chuckled, sipping on his own glass of something that looked a lot heavier than beer.

                “You’re-uh-sorry,” Clint stuttered, not sure what to say and feeling like an idiot. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to uh, stare.”

                “Everyone does, cher. No harm.” The man answered with a little shrug of his shoulders. He gave Clint a careful look of his own. “You look like you’ve gone a few rounds with a some brass knuckles. Relatives visiting for the holidays, non?”

                Clint laughed, louder than he should have out of nerves and blushed faintly before finally letting himself melt into his hands. “Man, I wish it was that simple.”

                The man eyed the nearly empty bottle in his hand. “What’you drinkin’?”

                The blonde glanced at his bottle and the label, “Oh uh, nothing just—“

                Before he could finish, the other man waved the bartender over and nodded to Clint’s bottle, “Another, sil te’plait, on me.”

                “Oh no, I—“

                “Hush, sit down.” The man next to him nudged the stool out for him. “You’re making a spectical of yourself. Probably not de best move, being an Avenger and all.”

                Clint fell into the seat and stared dumbly at him for a moment. “You…you know me?”

                “You’re de archer, oui? Hawkguy?”

                _“Hawkeye.”_ Clint corrected quickly, almost wincing. “Why does everyone get that wrong?”

                “I’m joking, mon ami. Of course it’s Hawkeye.” The other said with a nod, reaching for the bottle of southern comfort the bar tender had left him and refilling his glass slightly. “What brings you all de way down to de Crescent City, m’sieur? Thought you were more of a northern bird.”

                “Business…I guess.”

                “All by you lonesome?”

                Clint didn’t answer right away, finishing his drink before contemplating the next. He decided instead to side step the question, looking a bit more intently at his new companion. “What about you? Seems like you ought to have someone on your arm, heading to some party, or someone’s house for the evening.”

                The ruby eyed Mutant shrugged. “Afraid it’s just lil’ ol’ me dis year. C’est le vie.”

                “Jesus,” Clint mumbled, rolling his bottle in his hand and nervously picking at the label until it began to peel off in his hand, “If a guy like _you_ can’t get a date, what the hell hope is there for the rest of us smucks?”

                The man next to him laughed and Clint found the sound sent a warm thrill through him that raced down his chest, coated his ribs, made his belly clench and made his groin tingle.

                _Really?_ He thought to himself. _You’re going to start in on **those** feelings? **Now**?!_

The man next to him extended his hand, “I’m Remy, by de way.”

                “Clint.” The New Yorker said with as much firmness and bravado as he dared, hoping he would sound cool, or at least smooth. He griped the other man’s hand and felt a little zing past through him, like a little shock of electric current that made the hairs on his arm prickle faintly and stand up. “Whoa…”

                “You know Clint,” Remy began thoughtfully then, swilling his drink in his glass. “Maybe I’m being a bit presumptuous here but...would you like to ditch dis place and maybe go somewhere quieter?”

                His groin tingled again and his face felt hot.

                _Oh God._

                “Uh…”

                _Say something, stupid!_

                His face was on fire. “Um…sure. I’ve, uh…got a hotel….” He cringed then. Oh God, what if that wasn’t what Remy had meant? Was he wrong to assume that he was being propositioned? He’d never been propositioned by a guy before. He had no idea what to do with guys.

                But he liked guys. He liked them a lot. Maybe more than girls…? Nope. Jury still out on that one.

                Oh shit, he had been staring again.

                Remy stood and Clint realized how tall he was. Tall and lean, with broader shoulders and a narrower waist. Clint would have to stand on his tip-toes to come forehead to forehead with him. His mouth felt dry.

                “Why don’t we walk around a bit? Get some coffee, look at de lights in front of St. Louis’s? Not a prettier sight around here dis time of year.” He grabbed his coat off the back of the stool, a long brown leather trench and draped it over his arm, before depositing money on the countertop and looking to Clint. “You in?”

                “Yeah.”

                Clint scrambled back to his table—which of course had been taken by some younger couple, who were busy attempting to dry hump each other. They had eaten his food and thrown his coat on the ground.

                “Rude,” he muttered at them, grabbing up the now slightly scuffed leather jacket up and turning hurriedly to catch up with Remy, who was heading towards the door.

 

**

 

                Three hours later, it was dark outside now, with all the lights from the street below reflecting from the window of the hotel room.

                The two were curled up in the middle of the rumpled bed, eating a pint of “frozen hot chocolate” ice cream as they watched old Claymation Christmas films dance and sing awkwardly across the television screen, cocooned in a nest of blankets and sheets.

                “Beer and ice cream in the same day,” Clint mused, licking his spoon thoughtfully as he watched Santa dance across the screen. “I’m gonna get fat.”

                Above him, LeBeau chuckled softly and kissed the top of his head. “Gonna take more den one night of indulgence to ruin dose abs, cher,” he replied. Clint slid out from under his arm and settled back against the pillows, discarding the now empty container on the end table, next to the torn box of condoms.

                “Easy for you to say, you don’t have to put on a spandex suit and fight bad guys. Bad guys who are surprisingly shallow about appearances.”

                Remy chuckled again, that warm sound that reminded Clint of honey dripping into hot tea, and made himself comfortable against him instead. “You’re funny.” He purred.

                “Yeah…” He looked thoughtfully out the window, going quiet suddenly. The man next to him sat up and eyed him thoughtfully.

                “Everything okay?”

                “You…uh…you’re not disappointed are ya?” the blonde asked quietly, folding his arms across his chest, in a subconsciously defensive position. “I mean…you were probably expecting—“ he paused. “What were you expecting?”

                The Cajun shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t go into anyt’ing like dis wit many assumptions, cher. Got my ass in a sling too many times as a kid doin’ dat. Learned my lesson de hard way, you could say.”

                Clint nodded appreciatively. “I just, uh…you know I’ve never been with a guy before. And I don’t know how to—“

                “Clint,” Remy cut him off gently, a hand on his arm. “It’s fine. I didn’t pick you up just to have sex wit you, you know. Don’t remember ever sayin’ dat’s what dis was about.”

                Here Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. “So you admit to picking me up?” he replied, a little nervous smile in the corner of his mouth.

                Remy scratched a hand through his hair and sat bow-legged on the bed, still wearing his briefs and the t-shirt he’d been wearing under his sweater. He was both thinner and stronger than Clint had first guessed, all lean muscle underneath, not quite as thick as Clint himself. Remy just smiled at him again with those gleaming eyes.

                “You looked like you were lonely. I was lonely too. Dat’s all dis was. I thought…well, I thought we had a nice time.”

                “We did! I mean, we are!” Clint insisted. “I just…I mean…honestly, there’s this expectation when your around an Avenger. Even a second class one like me…I thought maybe you were trying to cash in on some weird superhero fantasy.”

                For the first time that night, Remy looked slightly soured. “I don’t have dose.”

                “Really?” the blonde laughed. “What about with Iron Man? Or Thor? Or Black Widow…”

                Remy shrugged, looking away. “Ain’t interested in crime fighters. Ain’t interested in powers neither.”

                “Good, cause I don’t have any.”

                “But I do.” He replied. He picked up his own discarded spoon and twirled it in his fingers for a moment, and Clint watched, stunned as it began to glow faintly pink, then bright magenta, slowly levitating out of Remy’s fingers and floating freely.

                “Holy shit.”

                Remy snatched the spoon from the air and clutched it tight in his palm as it suddenly made a loud “pop!” and he dropped it immediately. It fell onto the bed, twisted and burned.

                Clint didn’t say anything for a second, but now he was wishing he’d kept his quiver closer to the bed. Holy shit, what had he done? He’d gone to bed with a Mutant and never even thought for a second that the guy could be some lunatic like Magneto or one of his groupies.

                “ _This is why you’re second string, Clint,“_ He thought to himself. _“This is why.”_

                “Don’t get scared,” the other man sighed quietly, “it’s not like dat.” He slid out of the bed, gathering up his clothes which were tossed at the foot of the bed, pulling them on. “You were feeling down on yourself, back at de bar. I know what dat’s like. I know it get worse dis time of year too, especially when you’re all alone. Can’t imagine why you would be, all dose big powerful friends you have. So I thought maybe I could solve both are problems…share a little company for de night. Didn’t have to be no big deal. But you went and—“

                Clint suddenly leapt up onto the bed, grabbing Remy by the head and shoulders and turning him to kiss him flush on the lips, pulling him close. The Cajun gasped against his mouth, but didn’t resist, much to Clint’s relief.

                When he pulled away he looked at the other man carefully. “I’m a jerk. I’m sorry. Please…don’t leave yet.”

                Remy paused then, nodded slowly.

                Clint guided him back into the bed and they laid down next to each other, staring at the ceiling for a moment and listening the music on the tv, which had switched over to something else now, though the holiday theme and music seemed to remain the same.

                “You knew I was…depressed?”

                Remy nodded.

                “Was it that obvious?”

                “Non. Well, maybe a little. De bandages and all and de way you kept staring at dat phone.”

                “So this is a pity date?”

                “Jesus, Clint, are you always dis self-depricating?”

                “Maybe. Sorry.”

                “Shh. Stop.”

                Remy rolled over and kissed him lightly. “Stop worrying about all dat stuff in your head. De Avengers, or your image, or whatever de hell baggage you draggin’ around. Let it go tonight. Be here. Cause I got a feelin dat dis is finite, you know? Doubt we’ll cross paths again once you leave town.”

                Clint nodded slowly. “Are you still kinda drunk?”

                “Not no more,” Remy added, seeming relieved for the slight change in topic. “All dat walking and sweets…soaked it right up. You?”

                “Just enough.”

                The Cajun went to ask what that meant, only to have the man cover his mouth with his again, kissing him deeply, his tongue brushing over Remy’s as he invaded his mouth.

                Remy was right, he needed to just _let go_. After all that was what he had set out to do in the first place. To stop worrying about being Hawkeye and living up to the image everyone wanted him to have. To give into what he wanted, but never dared to allow. To be Clint. Just Clint.

                They went on for awhile, kissing and exploring each other with their hands, the same way they had when they’d first stumbled into the room earlier. But there was no tension now, no awkward dance of uncertainty that had lead to a quick and embarrassing stalemate that Remy had tried to sooth with ice cream and bad holiday specials.

                Clint still wasn’t sure if he wanted _sex_ but he wanted something more intimiate, something more tangiable than just kissing. His first kiss with another man, by the way.

                Well, except for Deadpool. But Deadpool didn’t count.

                No. Definitely not.

                He moved his hands down the Cajun’s lean torso, inching to the waistband of his briefs, teasing and hesitating because he wasn’t sure if he dared…

                Remy’s fingers came over his, giving them a little squeeze. “Clint,” he breathed, lips wet and face flushed as he broke their kissing to speak, “you don’t have to…”

                “Want to.”

                He brushed his fingers lower, over the fabric that was already stretched and straining and felt the heat of his erection press against his hand. Remy shivered a little and arched up slightly into the touch and Clint felt a rush of adrenaline in response.

                He kissed the Cajun again, then moved down his neck and chest, slithering lower in the blankets. Remy sighed and moaned softly then looked up in curiosity, hurriedly propping himself up on elbows as he felt Clint push his legs a bit further apart and start tugging down his underwear.

                “What are you--?”

                “Shh…”

                “Are you sure you--?”

                “Shush!” he grunted, kissing the man’s thigh and nipping at it, earning a little jolt in response, before dipping his head over Remy’s groin. The Cajun grabbed the edges of the mattress and hissed softly as the man’s mouth enveloped him.

                “Mmmm…!”

                Words faded, except for his partner’s faint coaxing and quiet suggestions. Clint followed them all, doing his best to do this right. It took him a minute to get used to the taste, and a moment longer figure out how to breathe…

                Suddenly he had more respect for the people in porn videos.

                Once or twice he was too rough, or too gentle, and Remy would whimper or whine and correct him gently, insisting here and there that Clint wasn’t obligated to do this.

                “Cher, it’s alright….you don’t have to…”

                “No way,” Hawkeye insisted, making himself more comfortable and gripping Remy a bit tighter in his hand as he looked him in the eye, “I’m awful at everything else, but I am _not_ gonna be at _this_!”

                Remy almost laughed, but moaned instead, cheeks flushing darker pink as the man deep throated him unexpectedly.

                Clint grinned around him, sucking a bit harder as he continued to lick and stroke the man alternatively, finally getting used to the feel of his cock in his mouth. It was good. He liked this. Even if it was a bit frightening to admit it to himself.

                He thought about what Natasha would say…about being too impulsive, not thinking things through…

                Fuck that.

                He was accomplishing something this year, dammit, something off his own personal list. This Christmas wasn’t going to be a bust of depressive loneliness, having gotten his ass kicked by bad guys. It was going to be the Christmas he finally let some of his hang ups go. The Christmas he laid a smoking hot Cajun Mutant in a hotel room.

                _THAT_ was something to talk about at Avenger Tower.

                Take _that_ Stark.

                Remy’s hips were starting to stutter and roll; Clint had finally found a good rhythm and pace and it was paying off.

                “Ahh…ahh…hah…do dat…mmm, dat’s nice…”

                Clint smiled around him and dipped his head a little lower, daring to take the man in deeper as he moved faster as well.

                “Mmmm…Clint, I’m…!”

                He couldn’t get the words out fast enough it seemed, so he moved his hands instead, suddenly pushing Clint’s head back and forcing him to release him just as he climaxed. Clint caught the results across his cheek and neck and laughed at the odd feeling of sperm splattering across his skin, but his eyes refocused on Remy, who still had one hand in Clint’s sweaty blonde hair, shivering and panting with orgasm.

                It was a hell of a sight.

                He sunk back against the pillows a moment later, smiling at the man with those devilish eyes that seemed a bit brighter than before. “Well…now I must say… _dat_ was better den I expected.”

                “Oh thank God…!” Clint laughed, wiping his face off on the edge of the blanket and flopping down next to the man, his face pressed against his stomach, which was still tense and faintly damp with sweat. He kissed him softly.

                Outside the window they heard the bells of the old church chiming loudly and the faint sound of cheering from the people who were still gathered out in the streets. The stroke of midnight. It was officially Christmas day.

                “Remy?” Clint panted, moving up to lie next to him on the pillow.

                “Oui?” The Cajun asked, still slightly breathless.

                “Thanks.”

                The mutant leaned over and kissed his lips and then his cheek and put his head on his shoulder and his arm around his chest. “My pleasure.”

                “Merry Christmas.”

                Remy giggled. “Oui. Merry Christmas, Clint…go to sleep now.”

               

**

 

                Hours later, Clint lifted his head from the pillow, hearing the sounds of Jimmy Stewart shouting “Merry Christmas!” over and over again from the neglected television set. He smiled into the pillow case and let out a deep sigh.

                Yes. Merry Christmas, one and all.

                He rolled over, expecting to find Remy tucked beside him, fast asleep.

                But the bed was empty. In fact, as Clint glanced around, he saw no sign of his lover’s clothes, shoes or coat. The empty side of the bed was ice cold.

                Clint sat there for a moment in silence, feeling the emptiness of the room wash over him.

                “Aw, Remy no.” he muttered, scrubbing his hand over his face. He kicked the blankets off him, struggling to find his pants and moved around to the other side of the room, glancing about to double check for signs of his guest. He saw his wallet then on the table by the door.

                Curiously he scooped it up, not remembering taking it out of his pocket.

                Opening it, he saw immediately that his ID had been stolen, along with all his cash. Four hundred dollars.

                In addition to his, there was something _new_ inside the wallet.

                A playing card—a King of Hearts—with a little scrap of notepaper paperclipped to it.

               

_Clint,_

_Sorry to end it dis way, cher. You had de bad luck to cross Gambit, and well, you were an easy mark, Avenger or no._

_Don’t worry, I only took the cash, the cards I left. Go home. Take care of yourself. I had a wonderful night, really._

_Keep my card, in case you ever want a reminder that tonight we weren’t just a pair of thieves or villains and heroes. We were just Remy and Clint._

                Clint stared silently at the note.

                Gambit.

                He had slept with _Gambit._ Not one of Magneto’s thugs, but definitely up there on the “no good Mutant list”.

                Fuck.

                FUCK.

                He wanted to be angry, but instead he was just…vaguely astonished.

                Remy’s perfect execution of his little con was…well, nothing short of flawless. Clint would know, he’d started out as a thief in life too. Maybe not the same kind…and certainly not with the same advantages. But still. He couldn’t help but admire the man’s craft.

                He licked his lips faintly, tucking the card back into the wallet.

                He’d run into Gambit again someday, he was sure. And when he did…well…they would have a few things to discuss. Possibly at the end of his bow.

                But if nothing else, they would have that one Christmas Eve together in New Orleans. And Clint figured, that was worth some slightly bruised pride and four hundred dollars.

                Yes. Worth every penny.

 

***

 


End file.
